Poetry In Motion

Poetry In Motion

It is easy to be defined

by movement rather than fluidity.
The small calico reaches her back paw

off of the ground and it becomes
a gray whirling dervish.

The paw begins to thump seconds before
it will reach its desired destination.
Her face is full of contentment.
A desire is satisfied in an unspoken
moment of captured bliss as her belly is soothed.

Tuscan architects build peach houses carved
from ancient stones that curve around
roads bended from care. Cafés line streets
meeting hand to mouth with
the local merchant and market.

Top floors are never lonely.
The bay windows are braced with
rod iron scaffoldings
that keep in what we hold sacred.

Red and white awnings enclose
doorways from sun, keeping hurried
tourists from becoming too pink
from the sun's lengthy kiss.
Days dream of tumultuous nights.

The calico jumps from perch to post.
Her eyes slanting over the awning as
she devours the curves and angles
that make up the city and its people.
A dance of life and density that prays.

Today's word is: alacrity

Failure Is A Four Letter Word

In my yoga practice (and classes) there is only one four letter F word: Fear. The very thing that stops me from moving deeper into a posture, or quieting the disharmony of my mind is simple. A silly, hateful vise that can wrap around any of us, using black magic to confuse us into thinking we can't accomplish our goals or dreams.

Let me introduce you:

He is a very small little fellow, a bite-sized bugger that hops in your mouth when you're not looking. You swallow him without permission and he lodges in the back of your throat. He won't cut off your oxygen supply, but he will wiggle his shapely behind and fool you into thinking he is. Cheeky bastard.

He builds a fortress of failure around you without your permission. He never asks before hand, only goes about it and then smirks when you begin to claw at the walls. This festering vermin  has endless tethers into your every want and need.

There is only one way to rid yourself of the dynamic disease. Befriend him. Walk right up to his smiling, antagonistic mug and wink. Bid him good morning and bat your eyes at his confused bewilderment. Then (and this is key) remind him that this isn't his life. Because his power - every last iota of it - comes from you.

When you freely give your control away, there will always be someone to take it. A sad, misguided soul who goes by the pernicious name of Fear. But you have the power to take it back. To recognize that this is your journey, and you have the power to unfold it.

Today's word(s): vermicious knid

Stepping Into A Sleeping Past

The new journey that I'm on - in the world of my own story, has me looking back in order to move forward. As a writer, in order to write real, I have to write what I know. I don't know that this rule is universal, though I've heard it a time or two before. I would wager every writer has their own technique, their own tap to reach the muses.

But for me, I have to step into a path that I've previously trodden and review it with new eyes. A fallen leaf of a memory will catch me and wrap around my wrists - guiding them to the keyboard for creation. Today I am sitting contented with my exploration into years ago.

It's much easier now, to embrace emotions that once made me squirm and fight. To recognize that nothing is permanent and change will shift the landscape without any help from me. I simply have to bare witness and the story flows out - glad to finally reveal itself and renew me in the process.

There are many ways to get to a story you're wishing to tell. But the key (for me) is to be gentle, fearless and welcoming. Because it's all there, inside the storage boxes in my mental haven. I just have to open the lid and peak inside. The words will stretch their arms, yawn and clamor out. So this is me, stepping out of their way and nodding hello.

Today's word is: élan

The Way Young Lovers Do

All morning long I've been haunted by the song, The Way Young Lovers Do. Such a rapturous melody. It slides down into my marrow and then travels through artery, capillary and vibrates beneath the skin.

I'm drowning in the voice of Jeff Buckley and smiling at the wisdom of Van Morrison's words. The Way Young Lovers Do, indeed.

Isn't it seductive, the many shades of a passionate story? I could roll in the imagery all day and never get tired. This particular song brings a field of images into my mind's eye. Echoing memory, playing off of idea and growing into something more than it was before I conjured it.

Magic.

I'm not sure if I believe in hocus-pocus the way other people might. But I do believe. (For me) it's a more tangible awareness of possibility, and of what focus and alignment offer my world. Song, story, art - all of these are otherworldly to me.

I wish I could hold a story in the palm of my hand. That I could cup her in a soft embrace, and whisper my greatest desires in her ears - then watch as she manifests them and they unfold. They would be born as the next story, song or painting. I could traipse in and out of them as I pleased before returning to the here and now.

Like fingertips softly trailing down my spine, I can almost feel Possibility and her sirens call. Oh the dream of all my dreams being brought out and into the light to spiral around like giddy children spinning their first circle.

Such a lovely reality to behold. It really reminds me of that passion, that engulfing need - just like The Way Young Lovers Do.

Buckley's cover of The Way Young Lovers Do: http://tinyurl.com/4uwlc58

Today's word is: gaiety

Humaphobia: Fodder's Greatest Foe

During last night's yoga, my sage instructor (who is truly the best guide a body can ask for) created a new phobia. At least, it was one I had never heard named before. Humaphobia: the phobia of human interaction. Of not being comfortable reaching out to a stranger, or using compassion for everyone.

I couldn't help but laugh (which I fear wasn't very yogic), but it's such a silly notion. And what's funnier still, she was absolutely spot on. We are such ridiculous creatures. We have this great power, called empathy, and we are so quick to ignore it. To reach into the holster and whip out judgement or malcontent over understanding.

We're thinking animals, but the nature of the hunted seems to hover just under our surface at all times. Humaphobic. To be ashamed of befriending and loving the person next to you - simply because they exist and we're all in this together.

This manifested earlier today. In a conversation about driving on the interstate, and the impulse not to let someone over when they clearly are trying to merge lanes, but poorly going about it.

As a driver, witnessing this person who is attempting to blink their way over, but will undoubtedly have wait until the last second and then just do it to get it done - well, it's very easy to look at that person and think: asshole. Bitch, dumbass, morose mutherfucker, pea brain, nincompoop, asshat...you get the picture. But why - why do we go there?

Because. They have inconvenienced our world. How dare they ask me for a little understanding when I am clearly driving here?

Ahhhh. It's all about me. Us, you, whomever. That person has inconvenienced me in this moment, because I'm shut off. I'm suffering the highest level of humaphobia.

Instead of getting angry - for no real reason - why don't I just recognize their struggle and back off? Be the person who says, "it's ok. I've got you." Then let them cross and wave them on their way, light of heart and with the hope that I will be offered the same grace throughout my daily journey in this world.

Because this world is so much bigger than all of us. Why not band together? Why not honor each and every person on this planet with the free, forgiving and loving grace of compassion?

I think you know what today's word is.

Wordy Wednesday

Soiled Beauty

Her hands are engorged with veins

that circle out from the wrists, like webs of antique lace,

and come over the top of the smooth, ivory surface.

Well manicured nails guard the vibrant hands. 

Little gates of jagged spears that hold back all warmth.

You can almost see them pulsing blue

with blood and sucking out all the pleasantries.

Her eyes are wide-set. Deep pools

of chocolate flecked with emerald.

The corners turn down in a grimace.

They rarely curve up in a smile.

Her feet are gnarled. Spider-like arteries

slowly crawl their way through

cracks and crevices. Her toes curl in,

bravely battling for room, as

they crawl over one another.

The big toe stands alone.

Slightly levitated above the others.

Sores cover the backs and heels of both feet.

When they began to beat rhythm against tune,

a kaleidoscope of blue and rouge tango in time.

Today's word is: agathokakological

Sweet Dissonance

The day started out sideways. A deceptively mellifluous, squinty-eyed morning that was waiting for me to trip over my own two feet. I could feel it snickering behind my back. My words began to reflect this, offering a voice to the thoughts it was surely thinking.

None of the thoughts were impeccable.

Most of them were adverbs, and I'm fairly certain a few were created by obscene improvisation on my part. Unless shitfuckeryly is really a word. Stranger things have been known to spring out of the depths of Shakespearean vernacular.

Life is full of sweet dissonance. Of harshness, discord and clashing tones that drive unrest. Unresolved moments that breed disagreement and unease. But these moments also feed creativity. Whether you're a writer, a painter, or a person just trying to make it through the day -- these hiccups can be molded into something greater than one annoying bit of grating ridiculosity.

I'm sweeping all of my dissonance into a room in my imagination highway and I am sorting the bullshit. Then I will study these crawling, searching angsts and write them out. If I can take it, so can my characters - and what's more, so can you. We just have to channel the obnoxious into something that transcends.

Then the sounds become coated, honeyed and all the more rewarding. God gave us two ears and one mouth, so I'm going to save the berating and turn my head to listen to all the harmonies I can redefine.

Today's word is: sacchariferous

Inside The Bubble

My matter looks like the inside of a washing machine on spin cycle. When I say matter, I'm referring to the things that I place value on. (Like the fact that I've left that hanging participle and really struggle not to correct the sentence.) I think I have been letting my matter over-define me.

Scratch that, I know I have. Doing 90 minutes of yoga a day and meditating is like unraveling one of those red drawing pencils. The kind that contractors use to go over plans and draw in where the plumbing and duct work go. If you simply look at the pencil, it looks like a regular wide writing tool. But as you pull the tether of casing, it will unravel. Sharpening by removing its outer coat. Yoga is a lot like that.

You don't escape life by doing yoga. I had a misconception that I would. That I would foray into a land of sunshine, lollipops and rainbows that would lead me to a whole new girl. Ashtanga yoga is movement meditation. You spend every moment with yourself. Let me repeat this: you spend each drawn out second inside yourself. Unraveling who you are. Sitting with the person that you may try to escape from.

I have discovered that I have a very hard time letting the past go. I have this gnarled, bone deep grip on past transgressions. Not just from feeling wronged by someone else (although those do exist), but mainly from not forgiving myself. And for some very silly things, too. It can be hard accepting that you're not perfect, and because you're not perfect - well, you kinda are.

As a Type-A ducky gal, I used to think in each obstacle of my day as a check mark. Gotta accomplish a, b and c. I didn't really look forward to any part other than when it was done. What. A. Waste. Most of the moments in my life were being stepped on, as I just propelled - no flung - myself though them. And for what? I was racing against myself in a competition that was me working my way from the ground on down.

I've begun to like myself a lot more. Because the pressure's loosening. It's like I removed my tie for a clip-on and said, "hey - I can dig this."

My perceptions were whoring me out to a darker side of life. I've decided it's okay to be happy, and to find comfortability with the emotions I discover. It's more of the "get out of your own way" philosophy that I dance around. It's just that I picked up a new pair of dancing shoes, and there are so many different moves and rhythms to groove to now.

Today's word is: aberrant

Sunday's Quiet Honesty

I hand picked this little poem from my garden of sonnets and musings. I hope it will bring you a moment of enjoyment. May today bring you indescribable joy and childlike laughter.

Quiet Honesty

Street lamps cascade light onto sleeping truths.

Shadows from beneath the dim form and bloom.

An open mouth tries to form the word hallelujah,

only to be shut out by the voiceless world of tomorrow.

Children no longer listen for the song of “Did you ever see a lassie,”

to bring them frozen treats on days that grow warm enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. Calories and cholesterol prevent them these delights of youth today.

Neurotic parents and nannies forbid them 


the simple pleasure of running after the white washed truck that

carries joy, security, and sanctuary.

These kiddos are rarely allowed to run through the sprinkler or slide down the slick banana yellow plastic strip.

They could fall. They could break, scrape, or harm themselves.

Then the company of Blank and Blank would be prosecuted

for this wrongfully manufactured product.

They would be sued for grievances under fault via warranty -

dubious product not constructed for children donned in Old Navy,

selling tropical trunks while doing a herky over the sprinkler, and assaulted

by its tiny points that spray water (of death) that mists the air.

That voices laughter and cools the boiling cement.

Beneath the cars that see, when the street lamps cascade light on to

these, these, these sleeping truths.

Today's word is: extraordinary

Sludging And Sliding

Snow has come again. Hiding the deadened leaves, limbs and ground. A frosting that repaints the earth as it hibernates and slumbers. You can feel the growth, the aching for renewal if you put your ear to the land. You'll also suffer a minor case of frostbite, but sometimes the price is worth the reward.

We drove into work, navigating salted roadway and watching the sky patch over with clouds. Point of view is more than a perspective, it's a paintbrush. We color our future with our present - how we paint each moment that we experience.

One person traveling down the same road, with the same horizon, could see a dismal, dank day brimming with sludge and caked earth. Another will feel the security of their heater, see hope in the rooftops slick with bright snow and tracks from sleds carrying happy children who hold wonder in their hearts.

It's the same scene. Set in a nearly similar light, but with a vastly different outlook. One person will carry the hazy-dazy gloom from their broken heartstrings in their pocket, coloring their smile with a frown. The other will bend the angles until a better one fits, and laugh at the thoughts that tumble in - no matter which emotion they piggyback.

We can sludge through. Trudging with one foot in front of the other as we crack our knuckles and grind our teeth. Or we can inhale the sweet smell of snow and imagination. Slide in and out of memory and dream, as we welcome the small rays of sunlight in and watch our cup run over.

We set the tone and voice the thoughts. I hope yours bring you a rainbow of happiness on this frosty winter morn.

Today's word is: superability

The Uncertain Thrill (This I Believe)

I curtsy to the power of anticipation. The essence of uncertainty is the very fuel that powers ambition. Because the eye of uncertainty is possibility. The Yin and Yang of dream fulfillment. Ironic, but there it is.

One of my best friends posted a button (or photo or mantra) on her blog the other day. It was a quote by Audrey Hepburn and it stated: Nothing is impossible; the word itself says 'I'm possible!

What a wonderful notion to forget, that I am made of possibility. Figuratively and literally. I am born (to myself, remade by myself) of the qualities I admire most (with a sprinkling of flaws and fallibilities that give me enough edge to remember who I am). More importantly, I come from energy. Energy, the great elixir of being is my matter. At the center of my universe, this universe, energy is my everything.

I, you, we – all of us are made of yummy, blossoming possibility.

Knowing that can lend pressure and uncertainty. For me it manifests in: If I'm possibility, then that means that if I don't fulfill my dreams, I've screwed myself. Um, no. Shake the cobwebs off girlie. It actually means that all I have to do is believe in myself, and the dreams will reveal on their own. I just have to get out of their way. Remove the pressure and welcome the reality.

Under pressure isn't being absorbed in possibility. It's giving rise to doubt, fear and all the other feisty buggers that are outfitted in battle armor, poised and pumped to take you down. Trying to see the end, when you haven't even walked through the door, is the best way to slap yourself back.

Because the finish line isn't important. Not really. If your aim is true and your steps are even, it’s the journey that matters most. It's enjoying how you get there, and taking the time to taste every day and the sweet nectar of kind words, hope and forgiveness.

See, the uncertainty is the thrill and the moments are the reward. What waits around the corner can either be the crocodile from under your bed, or the fruit on the vine. You decide. It’s already there, inside you, just step out of the way and it will be.

Today's word is: palpable

LibriVox, Be Still My Heart

I am a reader. At the end of the day, you will find me in the land of story. I relish each and every moment spent among the many characters and their journeys. They define so many parts of me. I have looked to them for laughter, wisdom and as role models when reality hadn't granted me one to identify with.

But it isn't always convenient to have your nose in a book - no matter how desperately you wish it were. This is why I am so grateful to the wonderful world of LibriVox. If you don't libri, you're not living, man.

LibriVox is an online catalog that is available for reading, or listening. So when I can't read, I listen. And what does LibriVox offer? The Classics (cue the Disney-themed hallelujah music). I listen as I battle the working day and cleaning evening. As I file, enter data, research, dust, mop, fold laundry, file my nails, floss my teeth -- you name it and I'm listening around it.

From Wilde to Austen, Poe to Lovecraft and all the in between. LibriVox holds the rubies, sapphires and emeralds of literature. Available for you, me and anyone in need of a healing revival.

So if you find that your eyes have grown weary, your brain has begun to mush and your arms tire, let them. Relax, find a resting spot and scroll through LibriVox. Turn up the audio and let the story come alive. There's always an escape waiting...just a click around the corner.

Today's word is:  apologue

Today's story is: The Castle of Otranto: by Horace Walpole

Fireflies In The Garden Of Writing

I'm reading a book and it's changing my life. From the inside out. It would be more precise to say that I'm ready to change my life, and I'm allowing this lovely book to help me do so.

It's a Toltec wisdom book called The Four Agreements: A Practical Guide to Personal Freedom by: Don Miguel Ruiz.

The four agreements are quite simple to remember and very difficult to put into practice. They are as follows: 1. Be impeccable with your word (your words to others and yourself) 2. Don't take it personally (just let it go) 3. Don't make assumptions (you can never be inside a situation, so ask questions - communicate and then let it go) and 4. Do your best (and recognize that your best is alive, it evolves and changes as you change day to day - depending if you're sick, sober or flowing with renewal).

I have always tried to do my best, but previously, I set unrealistic expectations at what my best was. It was a best that was deemed so by someone other than me - anyone, really. I was like the kid in the class waving their hand as though it was a cracked out hummingbird. Give me an answer, any answer, damn it.

I didn't trust myself to see my best, and so I would let anyone else point me in their direction. And, boy, let me tell you, people have no problem giving you a direction - even when they have no clue where it is going to lead you. I mean, how can they? It's my best, not theirs. But that's not their fault, I was the one stumbling down the wrong road of asking.

I now ask myself what my best is, what my dreams are and then I let it go. Now I struggle, a lot, with each of these agreements. But I start every day over. Each day I make the vow to follow the four agreements and become the feisty, red-headed warrioress (for me) that I am.

Nothing comes easy, but with practice it comes with reward. I'm living for the action now. Finding enjoyment in everything I do, flipping the script to read the happier foundation in my life. Because I am taking responsibility over myself and my future. And this, this my friends is a wonderful thing. And I'm so glad I get to share it with you.

Today's word is: verve


Fireflies in the garden
by: Robert Frost

Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.

Research Comes Bearing Gifts

I could say that as a writer research is essential. But I think as a person, research is vital. We writers are simply more aware of the digging we're doing. To be a thoughtful writer, you have to live. To live, you have to observe and understand your surroundings. To name your setting and plot of being, you have to jump in the moment.

I think research is like writing - most of us are doing it by the minute. We may not have on our "data hats," but we're clocking time, trying to understand the wheel before we dissect it.

Today is Monday. Monday reaches out like the sore on the pimple's back. I feel sorry for Monday. She never stood a chance with the rep we've given her. Monday is the death of the weekend, the day of sour grapes and dragging toenails.

But if we stop envisioning our reflection in her face, we'll see that she's far more than we could ever have imagined. The word Monday is a derivative of the Old English term monandæg meaning: Day of the Moon (Moon's Day).

Moon's Day has me conjuring images of Selene, Titan goddess of the Moon. The lady whose love, Endymion, immortal but bound to slumber, awaits her nightly arrival. Today is her day, and in that a day of love and patience. For there are no virtues too large to obey when it comes to the price of amour.

With the image of Selene, riding overhead and pacing for the night to welcome her, I suddenly see Monday in a vastly different light. Meaning is always hidden, tucked away like a sleeping whisper, too tired to chase the wind wishing around our heads. It only needs a bidding of hello, and it will rise up to spin perspective in a dance of laughter.

Such a simple awakening - seeing the day with brighter promise. And it's found simply by looking. Just another side benefit of opening our eyes and researching (or seeing) possibility.

Today's word is:  paladin - in honor of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

A Single Note Is Not A Song

One of my yoga books draws this conclusion: a single note is not a song. The book is referencing thought process and cleaning out the garbage (or rather, how each thought leads into reality and its perception). I, of course, chewed on this phrase until it liquefied.

A single word is not a story. But it is a beginning. Just like a single note can inspire a song, a solitary word can harmonize a possibility. Words inspire me. They are so often misused, mispronounced, or misgiven. But they affect no matter how they are erected.

If I told you that I thought what you wrote was garbage, you might doubt yourself. Not as much as if you told yourself that (and don't those pesky little bastards born from self doubt sit on our shoulders and do that more often than not). But if I reviewed your story and spewed venom on the premise that it wasn't good enough for me, well, chances are you might buy into the bullshit I'm selling.

That's how powerful a word can be. Scary stuff, that.

I don't do negative reviews. As I've said before (and as we all should have tattooed inside our writing havens), writing is subjective. Reading is subjective. Stories are magic. So your book may not move my mountains, but I bet you a slice of my Granny's cornbread that something in it will. (And all of it will find a home in another readers heart.)

For good, bad or in between, I always find a kernel of inspiration. Your song may not speak to me, but a sentence, a word, a phrase - that single note - will turn my head. I have yet to meet the story that didn't shape me somehow.

We, each and every one of us, is full of song. Of melody that has a prowess we rarely recognize. Instead of holding a dirty mirror to our faces, I offer the challenge of removing the temptation. Stop looking at the cracks and flaws and let each note find its counterpart.

If you find you're struggling to remember how it goes, close your eyes, let your fingers do the walking and the muses do the talking. Once we forget to find the angles, the answers inevitably sweep in to fill in the gaps. And that, that makes the music all the sweeter.

Today's word is: adroitness

Vernacular: The Dance Of Words

 I hope today finds you well, and brings you moments of inspiration, joy and solace. From inside my pocket of poetry, I share with you a few thoughts on language and how we handle words. Gentle reminiscing on what a pillar the world of words builds, and the revolution its evolution provides.

And Bathed Every Veyne in Swich Licour

by: Paige Crutcher

The vernacular of today’s youth is

lost in the true art form of poetry.

We no longer sing sotto voce,

calling forth the great fathers and mothers

that bore down pen to paper

before us.

Words that once voiced

claim to poetry have

slowly died out.

Like the majestic Great Auk

these words are extinct, and

any reminder of them

that seeps into the subconscious

is to be hunted down.

Violently we desecrate

our now forsaken language.

We bleed dry the shall, hath,

thou, forevermore’s, and wilts

from our vocabulary. Poor

Porphyria and her lover

are lost to us,

their tale a conundrum

of interpretations sent floating

down the river beside the

Lady of Shallot to end up

burned in the ashes of the sonnets

breathed to life by Shakespeare.

The works of Chaucer, comma

Geoffrey, are remiss of a King’s

language stricken down through

today’s society in favor of Pop

icon references and new clichés.

Born from soon-

to-be dead poets fingers.

Soon these writings

will lie in a tomb with

the sonnets, poetry, and verse

from a time that for today

is out of date and over-used.

We use too much of ourselves,

all for the hope to be forgotten less

than everyone before us.

Today's word is: veracity